"No, but I'm sure this one breaks for graffiti, breaks for heads and breaks them—and when it learns that it'll get a laugh in certain quarters it'll doubtless learn to break wind."
"You had that one ready," he said, "which means that you anticipated mine. That's scary."
"I don't admit to anything," I said, "but I wouldn't mind catching that act once he's got it polished."
Glory gave me a strange look and refrained from hissing.
"And speaking of polish," I continued, remembering the cuff links, "we've picked up a little something . . ."
But before I could finish, the front door burst open and a familiar voice yelled, "And she was going to shoot me too. Then I was here, thank God!"
That's what I got for not being quick enough to flick the Switch.
She was Morgan Barry, actress, and I'd been a fan ever since I'd done a full takeout on her when I was writing features for Onstage magazine. She came tearing into the reception room like a blond Valkyrie shouting, "Which one is the goddamn soul-changer?"
I'd spent three weeks with her, putting the story of her strange career together. She was sweet, warm, appealing to the public, cooperative and hardworking with her colleagues. She had everything going for her except the one kink that was crippling her progress. She was a jinx.
Mama Baumberg was devoted to romantic literature and had named her Morgan after Morgan le Fay, the fairy sister of King Arthur, because she wanted her daughter to enchant and captivate the whole world. Better Mama should have named her after Mordred, the bad-news knight who ruined the Round Table.
So Morgan Baumberg became Morgan Barry, actress, and wherever she went back luck was sure to follow: props failed, sets collapsed, lights exploded, cameras jammed. The entertainment business is particularly vulnerable to superstitions—never whistle in a dressing room, never throw a hat on a bed, never wish a performer good luck—so of course everybody was afraid to work with this charming hoodoo.
Not so charming now. She glared at me. "You!"
"Yes. May I introduce Adam Maser, the goddamn soul-changer?"
"My God, you're red!"
"And his assistant, Glory."
"This is Morgan Barry, a magnificent actress, also known as Voodoo Barry."
"Did you have to print that, damn you? Is that why you stopped seeing me?"
"Morgie, I still love you, but the piece was finished."
She described me with a four-letter word, then turned the Valkyrie on Adam. "I want my luck changed." But there was no resisting his warm smile and she returned it. "Please, kind sir?"
"Now what's all this brouhaha, Ms. Barry? You're obviously dressed for dinner . . . beautifully. Where? What happened? Why'd you wish here?"
"Cafe En Coeur, just across from the UN. I was there with Mal Mawson, one of my producers, and a potential backer. Mal brought me along to help coax the guy into putting up front money for a new series, 'Country Western,' about two Nashville singers who solve mysteries."
I said, "Oy."
"I'm going to be Wendy Western, who sings—no dubbing—and does all the shooting with a six-gun," the Valkyrie informed me. "Any compliments beyond 'Oy'?"
"And this is the shooting you were shouting about when you entered, Ms. Barry?" Adam asked.
"No. We were having drinks before dinner, laughing it up, softening him up, when damn if the backer's wife didn't appear out of nowhere and shoot him, and I got the hell out of there to here."
"Why?" I asked.
"Why?! I was probably next."
"I mean why'd she shoot him and maybe you?"
"From what she was screeching, she thought we were having an affair."
Adam and Glory had their eyes fixed on Morgan as though they were looking right through her. There was a long silence. At last Morgan snapped, "Well?"
"Wait, "I said.
"For what?"
"They're talking."
"Talking! They aren't even moving their—"
"They're talking UHF. Ultra High Frequency."
"Not to me, they aren't. They—"
Adam broke in. "Sorry, Ms. Barry. We have been talking. UHF, as Alf said, but not to you. We've been talking to your brother."
"Brother? What brother? I haven't got any brother."
"This will come as a shock to you, but you do have a brother and he's here."
"Here? Where? There's only the four of us."
"Inside you."
"What? Brother? Inside? Me?" Morgan shook her head incredulously. "You're crazy."
"Please sit down and listen. Yours is a fascinating problem which my assistant has already solved. There will be no more bad luck."
Morgan sank down, dumbfounded. I wasn't exactly on top of it myself.
"Do be patient," Adam continued. "When your mother conceived, fraternal twins developed, brother and sister. But during the gestation, the sister embryo overgrew the brother embryo, engulfed him and incorporated him in yourself as a fraternal cyst. This is unusual but not unique. There have been many such cases."
"I... I did a dreadful thing like that?" Morgan stammered.
"Not consciously. Not deliberately," Glory assured her. "How could you? It was pure accident."
"I f-feel like a cannibal."
"Nonsense," Adam laughed. "Your brother's alive, and that's unique. He's an enclosed, living cyst, and he's lonely and irascible because he's isolated: no friends, no one to talk to."
"Wh-why has he never talked to me?"
"He can receive full frequency but can only transmit UHF, which infuriates him. And what's been worse for you, he's a warlock, a witch-cyst."
Adam paused long enough to allow it to sink in.
"Your brother's been your jinx. The most trivial things can sting him into casting malevolent spells. Your guest's cocktail conversation annoyed him so he put a stop to it via the jealous wife. He conjured that false conviction into her mind."
"How has Glory solved the problem?" I asked.
"She's promised him a friend. He won't be lonely and angry any more."
"Someone that hears and speaks UHF?"
"And your speech, too. A charming lady friend. It all depends on Ms. Barry."
"Wh-what depends on m-me?"
Macavity became his most beguiling, which was as overwhelming as his persona power. Or maybe it was the same thing. "How would you like to headline yourself with an unusual pet to be with you at all times: bright, friendly, captivating, an attention-getter?"
"Like Cheetah, Tarzan's chimp?" But I was ignored.
Morgan could only look at Adam with wide eyes. "I— I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about," she faltered.
"Bok Pang, one of the Panda crowd," Glory said. "Dammy's bringing her over for your brother—should arrive in a few days—and he swears that from now on he'll magic nothing but good luck for you."
"Go back to the Cafe En Coeur," Adam said. "The guest's alive. Your brother made his wife a lousy shot; didn't want you killed, too. The backer's so delighted to be the center of attention that he's putting up the front money."
Morgan shook her head. "It's all taken care of? The bad luck?"
"All. Wendy Western and Panda Bok are going to win Emmy awards."
"I can't believe it."
"Your brother's promise. Wish back and find out."
"I— What do I have to pay? I—"
"Forget it, Morgie," I broke in. "That piece I did on you for OnStage got me a fat contract with Rigadoon. I owe you. I'll take care of it."
She burst into tears, tried to kiss us all at the same time, and headed for the front door supported by Glory.
"I don't have to wish you luck," Adam said. "You've got it already."
Once we heard the door shut, Adam's hand moved past me
to pick up the Klein Ruffino bottle.